Salt River

by Randy Wayne White

  Semaphore—it was an old nautical form of communication but without flags.

  “You got a mask and fins?” the old man asked me.

  I said, “It’s sort of deep. There’s a bunch of those anchors in the shallows. Last time, I waded out from shore. A hundred pounds doesn’t sound like much, but it would be a lot easier.”

  Josiah stared at me until I grabbed my dive bag, sat, and began taking off my shoes. “If you can’t bring me the foreigner with snippers,” he said, “you’re back to two anchors, not four.”

  The man was already stripping off cable from the big commercial fishing reel. Tomlinson held the cable’s working end, where there was a huge snag hook, all of it attached to a metal batten that served as a fishing rod. They swung the rod outboard, the old man saying, “I ain’t convinced about your plan yet, Mr. Ford, but I’m getting there . . . Give this a couple of tugs when you’re ready.”

  I had uncoiled the electronic shark zapper, ready to strap it to my ankle. “You ain’t gonna need that,” Josiah added.

  My last visit, I had done several dives here. Never had I seen so many oceanic whitetip and tiger sharks. Was this a test?

  Yes. It was in the old man’s hard stare. If I didn’t trust him, he couldn’t trust me.

  “I’ll get my gear on,” Tomlinson offered. “Doc’s got a bad shoulder.”

  “No need,” I said, and went over the side.

  Water clarity improved as I neared the bottom. A thatch of mooring anchors resembled stingrays hidden beneath the sand. I fanned one clear. The limited mobility of my left arm made it difficult to secure the hook to the mooring fluke’s shackle. Twice I had to surface for air.

  “Haul her up,” I said when it was ready.

  The electric reel was geared to land fish five times the weight of the anchor. Tomlinson wrestled the thing into the boat. The old man helped. When a second anchor was aboard, I made another dive and shot some video, then climbed over the transom and took off my fins.

  “Any visitors?” my pal asked. He meant sharks.

  “Nope, but the deacons will appear,” Josiah responded. “Hand me that there knife.”

  The anchors were furred with benthic growth, anemones, a few barnacles. He knelt and peeled away a strip of rubberized coating. The metal beneath the coating resembled liquid sunlight.

  “Looka there,” the preacher mused. He swiped at the second anchor until he saw gold, then took a seat. “A damn fortune lying there right off our dock.” He took a moment to wipe his face and think. “But with Ciboney in a family way again, I guess it’s a curse, too. On the other hand, money is money.”

  Josiah nodded as if he’d made a decision, then addressed Tomlinson. “I don’t want to hear no nonsense about camels climbing through needles neither. My people have been poor and my people have had money. Only a fool would choose to be poor. There’s a passage from Ezekiel I’m trying to recollect. . . .”

  “Ezekiel’s pretty heavy going, man,” Tomlinson said.

  The old man searched his memory, then gave up. Next, he wanted to discuss logistics.

  I told him, “Rayvon can’t do anything until I give him the GPS numbers for this spot. The timetable is up to us.”

  Josiah said, “Okay, then. We’re gonna take about half of what’s down there and leave the rest.” He looked to see my reaction. “Most of what we leave will be out here in deeper water. You ain’t gonna be aboard when that Babylon filth shows up, are you?”

  I shook my head. “If you leave half, that’s more than enough to make headlines if they get arrested.”

  Arrested. That was the part Josiah still didn’t understand. Who would challenge a Nassau customs agent salvaging gold from a government boat?

  “I’ve got some contacts” is all that I could tell the man. I was thinking about the U.S. Treasury Department and Leo, who was trying to get back in the good graces of the IRS.

  Josiah replied, “Mr. Ford, you just make sure you’re not on the boat with them bastards. Here . . . Watch . . .” He stood and signaled the men on the pier. It was built of heavy timber, planked with boards. One man, then several of the men, began stomping their feet.

  Tomlinson perked up and threw his hair back. “I love this part.” He smiled. “Let the dance begin.”

  We had both witnessed this phenomenon before. Build a fish-cleaning table over an abyss 4,000 feet deep, oceanic predators will develop a Pavlovian response. Wood conducts sound in low-frequency ranges that few animals other than sharks can hear. To the south of where we were anchored, a lemon cusp of sand plummeted into indigo shafts of light.

  On that lemon cusp, a shadow appeared. Then a slow flight of shadows topped the shoals and cruised shoreward. Oceanic whitetip sharks, massive, their pectoral fins maneuvering as wings, their bodies languid missiles. Each shark was accompanied by a squadron of remoras.

  Rev. Bodden was still trying to remember the Bible passage. “Something about ‘Their gold shall be removed and they will not be spared the wrath of the Lord,’” he said. “Only the passage was longer, filled with God’s pissed-off wisdom from the Old Testament.”

  He turned to me. “You gentlemen are welcome to spend a few nights on my island, you want. Rules are simple. Maybe even lend a hand—we got a helluva lot of work to do.”

  Tomlinson and I already knew the rules. There were areas on the island we were allowed to go and a few that were forbidden.

  “Mind if I land my plane in the lagoon?” I asked.

  Josiah was contemplating the sharks. “I’m gonna have to look that passage up. Well, tomorrow night—or whenever that filth gets here—we’ll watch for their boat and let the deacons decide.”

  NINETEEN

  On the phone, Leo said he was worried about his wife. His daughters spoke to the woman daily, but they hadn’t seen her in more than a week. “That’s not like Nanette,” he said. “She’s got her faults, but she’s a damn good mother. Ray says he hasn’t seen her either.”

  “You’re still talking to Rayvon?” I asked. It was Monday morning. Tomlinson and I had just made the fifty-mile flight from Fernandez Bay to George Town in the Exumas. I had moored my plane at a resort in the lee of February Point, a busy tourist area compared to Cat Island.

  “Ray calls, I answer,” Leo explained. “So what? He’s trying to cut a deal with that salvage honcho, Moses Berg. You really think the guy works for the Mossad?”

  “Morris Berg,” I said again. “And I told you not to mention his name on the phone.”

  “Then it must be true,” Leo reasoned. “Ray, he’s upped my percentage to ten, if they find what they’re looking for. I think Ray’s a little afraid of Berg. Suspicious, you know? Oh, here’s something else—it’s all over between him and Nanette. Ray actually apologized, said it only happened a couple of times and they’d both been drinking—not that I trust that asshole. Guess she finally came to her senses, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t believe anything Rayvon tells you,” I replied.

  “I don’t. I just said that. Thing is, Ford, when I really think about it? I’ve slept with three different women—not counting massages and blow jobs—since we got married, but somehow that’s okay? Double standard, man. We talked about that at the last AA meeting. Every human being is entitled to a few mistakes, don’t you think?”

  It was weird how easy it was for Leo to confide in me, a stranger. Honesty came easily because strangers have nothing to gain by lying. I said, “I’m going to tell you something and you’re not going to like it.”

  “Let me guess,” Leo said. “Ray’s planning on screwing me over. Like that’s a surprise. Hey, man, I’m not stupid. Every conversation we’ve had, I’ve got him on tape—well, on my phone—bragging about a cocaine deal he just did. And his plans for Jimmy’s gold, if he finds it. Black market, and pays zero taxes. He pulls that crap, I go straight to the feds if he doesn’t cut me i
n.”

  This was surprising news. “Good for you. That could be useful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I took no pleasure in sharing what Leo deserved to know. I told him that I’d seen Rayvon with Morris Berg at the Grand Hyatt in Nassau. “It was in the bar a couple nights ago. This is the tough part, Leo. Your wife was there. First with Ray, but she ended up in Berg’s room.”

  “What? Bullshit.”

  “A pretty blonde, early thirties?” I said. “She smokes Marlboros, I think.”

  “Nanette, she . . . What the hell are you . . .” The man couldn’t get his brain around it. “Hold on. What do you mean she ended up in the Mossad agent’s room? Like a goddamn hooker?”

  I started to say, “As far as I know, nothing happened. I think Rayvon forced her into—”

  “You’re a fucking liar!” Leo yelled, and hung up.

  Tomlinson had found a shady spot beneath a poinciana tree that had rained a few scarlet petals onto his hair. We were waiting for a cab. Before taking off from Cat Island, I had exchanged several texts with Rayvon. I’d included underwater video I shot of the mooring anchors, two dozen in a line—more than a ton. I’d also included photos of an anchor I’d salvaged with the coating stripped off.

  The photos had done the job. Rayvon was gut-hooked. Now—if he wasn’t lying—he was a few miles north, near Moss Town, doing the final prep on the government boat he claimed to have requisitioned.

  I hadn’t told him I was coming to George Town. I wanted to eyeball the situation first. After that, I would play it by ear.

  “Sounded like you were in a yelling match,” Tomlinson said, referring to my conversation with Leo.

  I took a seat next to him. “I think love is the biggest time waster in the world. If it’s not kicking your ass, it’s humiliating somebody you know.”

  “Well, I suppose stalking is more efficient,” Tomlinson reasoned. “But I’d miss the cuddling.” He gave me a sideways glance. “More Hannah problems? You know, it wouldn’t kill you to at least pretend you believe in God. What’s the worst that could happen? You’re struck dead, wake up, and have to beg God for forgiveness? Hell, I do that most mornings anyway.”

  I said, “I was talking to the IRS agent who tried to extort me. If the dumbass would cooperate, I wouldn’t have to bother a friend at another agency.”

  “Who?” When I didn’t answer, he said, “Oh, racking up more debt to Spook City, huh? That should add to your frequent-flyer miles.”

  “I’m trying to help the IRS guy,” I said. “It would cost me a hell of a lot less down the road. And might even solve some of his family problems.”

  Tomlinson found this amusing. “Marion Ford, look at you—founder of the He-Man Womanizer’s Broken Hearts Club.”

  I flipped him the bird. My phone buzzed. I answered and walked away, saying, “Leo, take a deep breath and let me explain. You could come out the winner in this. Really.”

  * * *

  —

  North of Grand Isle Resort was an undeveloped area. After another mile was a complex of cement piers, where there was a fuel depot. An oceangoing tug was moored there, and a dilapidated tri-hull next to a row of garbage bins.

  Signage read Government Use Only.

  I got my first look at Rayvon’s boat from a distance. The garbage bins provided cover. His DEA “cutter” turned out to be an outdated police patrol boat. I recognized the design. It was a 31-foot Interceptor from the early years of Pablo Escobar. The paint and official markings were fresh.

  No sign of life aboard, but there was a car. A Toyota, blue on white, the door stenciled Bahamian Customs Service. There was also an oversized cargo van, the sliding rear door open. The bed was empty except for a stack of blankets. They were the type people use when moving furniture—or, in this case, two dozen or more mooring anchors that Ray planned to steal from me, his trusted associate, Morris Berg.

  Tomlinson was in the resort parking lot, waiting in the cab. I glanced back, before moving closer to the boat. A couple of rusty air conditioners were mounted on the boat’s roof next to the radar tower. The AC compressors rattled against the heat on this hot August morning. Forward, covered by a blue tarp, was the .50 caliber machine gun, as mentioned. Aft was a derrick, and a dozen scuba tanks secured near the transom.

  Ray was way ahead of schedule, almost set to leave. No surprise there. But who had he brought along as crew? That’s what I needed to know before deciding my next move.

  I waited, I watched. Still no movement aboard the boat, so I sent Rayvon another text. It read just landed george town, be there in 10, driver knows location.

  That got some action. The cabin door opened. First came Nanette. She was wearing shorts, a big floppy hat, sunscreen goo on her arms. Standard dress for a two-day cruise. Next came a boney-looking man, blond hair to the small of his back, and tattoos.

  It was Ellis Redstreet, the Australian attorney. This was unexpected. I couldn’t see Rayvon sharing his windfall. My guess was, he would use the Australian’s diving expertise, then kill him.

  I snapped photos, then switched to video. Rayvon stepped out on the deck. He looked like an ad for steroids, in his white bikini underwear. Redstreet slammed the cargo van’s rear door closed. He and Nanette got in, and the van bounced away. Rayvon did not respond when the woman looked back and waved.

  Uh-oh, I realized. He’s going to kill her, too.

  Could I let that happen? No . . . But to warn Nanette was to warn Rayvon. I argued the options back and forth in my head. There was no good option. I returned to the parking lot and told Tomlinson I needed the cab and to wait in the resort’s bar.

  “You got a very heavy vibe about you, man,” he replied. “Black karma going down . . . What’s the problem?”

  I couldn’t talk in front of the driver. “Not now,” I said. “Call me in thirty minutes. Speak loud, I want you to be heard by the person I’m with. Tell me my plane’s cleared for takeoff. Got it?”

  Tomlinson gave me his Zendo clairvoyant look. “Whoa, dude! Whatever it is, you can’t let it happen,” he said. “No violence. You promised.”

  This made no sense until I had returned, solo, to the dock and was getting out of the cab. Then I remembered that three days ago, at the airport, I had told him that no one would be hurt or killed.

  Not a promise, exactly, yet those were my words.

  * * *

  —

  Rayvon had changed into official attire. He wore blue BDU pants and a white shirt with epaulettes, lieutenant bars pinned to the collar.

  “Ready for inspection,” he said with a grin and a mock salute when he saw me. “Come on, come on,” he said, waving me aboard. “Moe? That video you sent? We gonna have us a party, my friend, when we done with this. How much gold you think’s down there? I mean, really?”

  He was buzzed on something—cocaine, I guessed. It brought out the showman in him. He wanted to tour me around, but first apologized for repairs just done to the deck. It was an excuse for all the clutter—tools, cans of paint, a roll of fiberglass, open tubes of epoxy.

  I said, “I’m in kind of a hurry. We need to coordinate our timing. You got a GPS chartplotter aboard?”

  Rayvon loved that. He couldn’t wait to get me seated in the wheelhouse, where there was a midsized Garmin. On the screen, a lucent nautical chart showed our location. “Glad we’re doing this, yeah,” he said. “Business first. You want to give me the numbers or punch them in yourself?”

  I ignored that and instructed him to zoom out. He did until the chart included Cat Island to the east. I said, “I want you to pick me up around sunset—here.” I touched the screen. “It’s about fifty miles to Fernandez Bay—a two-and-a-half-hour run, tops. How soon can you be there?”

  It threw him, which I expected. “Today? Man, you told me be ready by tomorrow or Wednesday. I still gotta take
on fuel and shit.”

  “You’ll have time,” I said. “What about crew? Who’s coming with you? My people want to run a background check.”

  “Background check? Oh man”—he made a theatrical gesture— “it’s just some local kid. A good diver, that’s all we need. Pay him a couple hundred bucks and say good-bye. Moe, lighten up, man.” He got up from the captain’s chair. “You want a beer? How about a beer?”

  As he went to the ship’s fridge, he explained how he expected it to go. We’d meet tomorrow around noon, take our time, he said. He had plenty of air aboard, but other gear was needed. A slow, fun day that would make us very rich.

  Still talking, he returned with a couple of Red Stripes. “No one’s gonna bother us out there. Man, you were right all along about using an official boat. But see”—he handed me a beer and took a seat—“this vessel is now my personal responsibility. The Bahamian government, we got strict rules and such. You know, got to file a float plan, all that crap.”

  He swiveled around to face the chartplotter. “That’s why the first thing we do is enter all the waypoints. The course we gonna take tomorrow—our destinations, in other words. Okay”—he hunched forward—“where, exactly, you want to meet me at Fernandez Bay?”

  I knew what he wanted, but I couldn’t give in too quickly. “Your float plan has to be approved before you leave the dock?”

  “Moe, my brother, you a pilot. Same as your Learjet, man. When you ever take off without permission? This ain’t some damn little pleasure boat we’re on.”

  “How about just write in the Fernandez Bay waypoint for now?”

  Rayvon effected the patience of an adult dealing with a child. He produced a clipboard of protocols required before leaving port. Nothing on there about a float plan, but I finally conceded, “Rules are rules, I guess. I’ve got the GPS numbers on my phone.” I swiped it open. “You ready?”